


promises are meant to be kept

by armyofbees



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Promises, Temporary Character Death, retelling of the events at schuylkill river
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofbees/pseuds/armyofbees
Summary: Despite Hamilton's promises, Laurens is reluctant to let him go. Hamilton seems certain he will be back by dawn—that is, until he isn't.Or, a retelling of the incident at Schuylkill, wherein Hamilton is incorrectly reported dead and shows up at the headquarters while the company is still mourning.





	promises are meant to be kept

**Author's Note:**

> time to fling this into the sun. it is trash, but it's also seven pages long and the world deserves to see it. i wrote the bulk of this at like 1-3 in the morning. i am at least 6% sure that this is historically accurate, but i'm posting this in a rush so i'm basically running on hope. nevertheless, enjoy!

It is mid-September, and the temperature outside is warm, as of yet. Laurens sits at a desk writing, with the window open beside him. Books have been repurposed as paperweights all around him, preventing the gentle breeze from making off with any important missives.

Despite his ankle having yet to fully recover from the contusions sustained at Brandywine, Laurens maintains that he does not require his ankle to write letters, and has returned to work.

Across the desk from him, Hamilton works also, quill moving quickly and with fervor. Laurens indulges a moment to study his friend—for the sunlight filtered in by the window pronounces his features just so—then returns his focus to his work.

“Hamilton,” calls Tench Tilghman, from the doorway. Both Laurens and Hamilton raise their heads. “The General has summoned you. He waits with the cavalry.”

Hamilton trades a glance with Laurens, his brow furrowing, and nods. “Did he mention a purpose?”

Tilghman shrugs. “Perhaps something to do with Schuylkill. You know we remain idle on that front.”

Laurens raises an eyebrow as Hamilton stands and makes his way to the door.

“Perhaps,” Hamilton muses, finding his hat and giving a quick nod to the room. He slips out the door, and Laurens is left scrutinizing an empty hallway.

“Ever the skeptic, Laurens?” Tilghman asks, from where he has situated himself at a desk.

Laurens shakes himself and returns his gaze to his unfinished letter. “Only insofar as Schuylkill is concerned. How Washington plans to take it remains a mystery to me.”

“Trust in the General, Laurens. That is our job, is it not?”

Laurens hums noncommittally.

He finishes his letter and translates another addressed to Washington from Marquis de Fleury before he breaks for lunch. Tilghman remains at the headquarters as Laurens finds his hat and wanders to the tavern.

He finds Hamilton shortly and slumps onto the bench next to him. Hamilton huffs a laugh and presses their knees together under the table. “How much was done between now and this morning to warrant a mood such as this?”

“You are an aide, surely you can imagine,” Laurens says. It earns him another laugh.

“Fair.”

Laurens takes a sip of his stew, then looks to Hamilton with interest. “May I inquire as to your business with the good General this morning?”

“He has appointed me to lead the cavalry into battle against hay,” Hamilton tells him. Laurens raises an eyebrow. “We are to burn the barns along the river later tonight.”

“Which bank?” Laurens asks, with no small amount of surprise. He had not considered the barns as a tactic, and he does not fancy the idea of Alexander crossing the river to put himself in such danger.

“Why, dear Laurens, I am going to set fire to the shore we currently occupy,” Hamilton says, voice dripping sarcasm. “Pray, how shall that help our cause?”

Laurens elbows him. “The cheek of you. I ask only out of concern.”

“You needn’t worry yourself so,” Hamilton says, and offers a smile. “I shall have a boat on hand, and _I_ shall be the one wreaking havoc. Have you ever known me to injure myself so unwittingly?”

Laurens gives him a look. “For the sake of your pride, I shall refrain from answering that.” Hamilton scoffs and glares good-naturedly. “I shall also wish you the most successful of missions.”

“But of course. _I_ am in charge, am I not?” Hamilton smiles smugly, and Laurens has to remind himself not to kiss him right there.

“You are,” Laurens says instead, “and that is what agonizes me thus.”

Hamilton shoots him another glare, and Laurens can’t help the laugh it evokes. Hamilton simply rolls his eyes and takes a petulant bite of his lunch.

 

* * *

 

Later, Hamilton and Laurens wait in the room they share, Hamilton preparing for his mission and Laurens sitting on his cot. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers twisting with agitation.

“I shall return anon,” Hamilton says, without looking at him. “You do no good fretting.” Laurens doesn’t speak. “By dawn I will have returned. Consider it a promise.”

Laurens’ eyes flicker up to him for a moment, then return to their track on the ground. Hamilton comes to stand in front of him and takes his hands, rendering them still. He tugs Laurens onto his feet and puts his hands on his face. Laurens glances at the door, but, upon finding it closed and no fellow aides bursting through, meets Hamilton’s eyes.

“Promises, I do not break,” Hamilton says, and presses his lips to Laurens’ forehead.

Laurens’ hands reach up to grasp Hamilton’s wrists, and he nods. “I am aware.”

Hamilton kisses him then, slow and deep and searching, as though the kiss itself is another vow. Laurens moves his hands to Hamilton’s chest, one tugging at his cravat and the other coming to rest against his shoulder. Hamilton smiles into the kiss.

“If you render me disheveled, I will be late to the banks.”

Laurens smirks. “That is my objective.”

Hamilton kisses him once more, then pulls away. “Alas, I do not think the General would be pleased, and then I will be late returning.”

“My plans, devastated,” Laurens jokes, and gives Hamilton’s hand one last squeeze before letting go. “You will return by dawn.”

Hamilton nods. “Dawn. Until then.”

Laurens nods and watches as he leaves. It is unsettling, how final it feels.

It is early yet, so he shakes off the feeling and returns to his work. He makes a futile attempt at disregarding the dread settling in his stomach as the sun sets. He does not get much work done that afternoon.

He is setting aside the translation he was attempting to focus on when there is shouting from outside the headquarters. Night has fallen, and the General has retired to his room, so Laurens is the one to meet Henry Lee at the door.

“I am to see the General immediately,” Lee says, and Laurens shakes his head.

“He has retired. Surely I can notify him come morning.”

Lee shakes his head and barges past Laurens, pushing him into the coatrack. Laurens splutters indignantly.

“You will want to hear this as well, Colonel Laurens,” Lee tells him shortly, and makes for the stairs.

Intrigued, Laurens lets go of the incident and follows. Lee knocks on the door to the General’s room and stands back, at attention. Laurens sulks behind him, in an attempt to remain unseen. The door opens and Washington looks down at them, expression one of concern and displeasure.

“What is it that warrants such a ruckus at this hour?” he asks, and Laurens cannot help that he stands a little taller, at attention as Lee is.

“Sir, I come to report on the mission across the Schuylkill,” Lee says. “It has failed.” Laurens’ stomach drops. _Where is Hamilton?_

“In what manner?” Washington asks calmly, and Laurens latches onto his steady voice.

“They have been shot at, sir,” Lee says. “Colonel Hamilton has been killed.”

Laurens does not register the General’s response. He braces himself against the wall with one hand, and the other flies up to his face. He stumbles, though he tries not to, and leans his shoulder into the wood.

“Laurens,” Washington’s voice cuts through his stupor. “Have you need of a chair?”

Laurens shakes his head mutely, then says, almost imperceptibly, “I am quite alright, sir. I am going to go, now—”

“Colonel,” Washington meets his eyes sympathetically, “would you report to the other aides? We must grieve in proper.”

Laurens purses his lips and nods, pushing himself away from the wall, though his legs remain unsteady. “Certainly, sir.” He does not fumble the stairs as he climbs to the aides’ quarters, knocking gently before opening the door. Tilghman and William Grayson look up with interest, though the others remain engrossed in their activities.

“Laurens, what brings you up here?” Grayson asks, and grins. “Pray, has Hamilton returned?”

Laurens swallows before whispering, “No.” His tone attracts the attention of the room. He cannot meet the other aides’ eyes. He cannot break his gaze from Tilghman’s, cannot look away, even as understanding blooms in his eyes. “Colonel Hamilton has been shot. He is dead.” His voice drops out, and he cannot bring himself to continue.

His words are met with silence, except for Grayson’s quiet, “Oh, shit.”

There is another bout of silence before Tilghman asks gently, “Has the General heard?”

Laurens nods. He does not trust his voice to keep steady. He has to wait for another moment before telling them, “He has told me we must grieve in proper. I believe he wishes us below stairs.”

There is a murmur of assent and Tilghman stands. As he passes Laurens in the doorway, he puts his hand on his shoulder. Laurens does not react. “Never have I witnessed two friends whose affections ran as deeply as yours.” Laurens freezes, but Tilghman continues, heedless, “My condolences.”

Laurens nods and makes a choked noise of affirmation, then turns to follow him down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere, someone managed to locate a cask of rum, which the company is now slowly draining. They sit in the aides’ office—all of them and Washington in addition—trading memories and thoughts. Laurens has not said a word.

“Do you know, he never did care for organization,” Grayson is saying. “Poor Laurens and I would sort through it while he broke for meals, simply to keep Fleury and Putnam’s missives separate.”

“But never was there a man with such honor and drive,” Tilghman counters, though Laurens is still left bristling.

“Hear, hear,” is the general consensus.

They nurse their drinks in silence, and Laurens does not meet anyone’s eyes. Nobody tries to talk to him—they are not so inebriated to think it a good idea. If someone were to attempt, he is not quite sure what he would do, though he is certain that it would disrupt the somber atmosphere. He briefly considers rising to an imaginary offense, if only because Hamilton would have stood by him, were he alive.

“His bravery on the battlefield was near unmatched,” the General says into the quiet. “His cunning, as well. We shall be hard-pressed in finding another strategist such as him.”

“We will be hard-pressed in finding another man such as him,” Laurens says, his voice raspy from disuse. “He is quite singular.”

Washington inclines his head, and they lapse into silence once more.

The rest of the company return to their rooms some time later, but Tilghman lingers until it is only him and Laurens.

“Do you wish to switch rooms?” he asks gently. “You were closer with him than I.”

Laurens draws in a sharp breath and shakes his head. “I would not, though I appreciate your generosity.” He does not want anyone else to witness his grief. He does not know how he has remained stony this whole night, and he fears what may happen when he cracks. When Tilghman hesitates still, Laurens says, “Good night, Tench,” and brushes past him to the stairs. He does not need pity.

He stands for a moment outside of his and Hamilton’s room, almost afraid of what he might find. He supposes it is his duty to sort through Hamilton’s belongings. He does not wish to do so.

After a great hesitation, he opens the door and steps slowly into the room. It appears so foreign to him now, without Hamilton’s presence. With the knowledge that he will never be present again.

He curses himself for letting him go.

Hamilton’s belongings are sparse, but so are Laurens’. It is war, after all. Men do not afford themselves the pleasures of material wealth at times when glory is far more valuable.

Laurens wastes no time on Hamilton’s clothes—those may be reused elsewhere in the ranks. They are always short on fabric. He does fold them carefully, placing them in a neat pile at the foot of Hamilton’s bed.

His friend’s personal items are not much. Laurens, for some inexplicable and womanish reason, had been hoping to find something there. Possibly something which tells a story he did not yet know, or perhaps simply an item to keep, something he might remember him by. He finds nothing.

It is this fruitlessness that breaks him—he does not feel the tears coming until he is short of breath and cringing into himself. He kneels and hugs his ribcage and puts a hand over his mouth in some effort to silence himself, and Laurens weeps. He drops lower and goes again at Hamilton’s belongings, searching for _something,_ and again comes up empty-handed. He curses in between tears and sits back again.

“You—you cannot do this,” he whispers fiercely, to no one. “You cannot leave like this, and expect me to continue living. You might have at least left me something of yours, something so I do not forget your face, your mind. You might have even thought of me before you threw yourself away.”

Laurens wonders suddenly if he ever drew Hamilton. Certainly he would remember if he did. He reaches for his drawings, bunched together beneath his bed. He does not waste time on cleanliness, instead tossing them to the ground so he might see them all individually.

He curses himself for never having thought of his friend as a subject, as he frantically roots through page after page of birds and flowers and scenery. At last, he finds one page. It holds flowers and birds like the others, but at the left center there is a portrait. It is Hamilton, and he is smiling, and Laurens can suddenly breathe again.

He stares at the portrait for many minutes, trying to remember if he got it exactly right. He squeezes his eyes shut, and chides himself that it is too soon to have forgotten Hamilton’s face. He lets his heartbeat slow, and pulls the drawing to his chest.

Laurens curls on the floor that night, tracing the lines of the portrait with a finger and acting as though he does not heed the tightening knot in his throat. He does not weep again.

 

* * *

 

It is dark yet, barely a hint of light on the horizon, when Laurens jolts upright at the sound of a door being slammed below.

He rises cautiously, places Hamilton’s picture gently beneath his bed, and makes his way to the door. It appears the noise has awoken the other aides, as well, for they are whispering softly in the hallway. Grayson is wandering towards the stairs.

Laurens rushes forward to grab his collar and pulls him back. “Have you no sense of self-preservation? Who in our company causes such noise at such an hour?”

Grayson shakes him off and glares, but his eyes soften as they meet Laurens’. “Have you slept?”

Laurens does not answer, for he has no justifiable excuse and Grayson would not believe anything he says.

Suddenly, from below a voice shouts, “I am late but surely that should have awoken you!”

Laurens freezes. He and Tilghman’s eyes meet, and he sees the same shock he feels reflected there. “Surely it can’t be…” Laurens begins, but he cannot bring himself to say it. For that voice belongs to Alexander Hamilton, but Hamilton is dead, and Laurens does not believe in ghosts.

There is the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a door opening below, and then silence. The aides wait. Then Washington’s voice calls, “Gentlemen, if you would descend.”

Tilghman gives Laurens a single nod, and that is all he needs. He reaches the stairs in a second, near barrels down, and freezes when he reaches the foot.

In the hallway stands Washington, and beside him, the very object of Laurens’ grief.

“Laurens,” Hamilton says, flashing a smile, “I hope you did not worry yourself too much on my account.”

Laurens does not reply. He holds Hamilton’s gaze, feels his heartbeat heavy in his chest, hears the blood roaring in his ears. He wants to punch him. The aides trickle slowly past him, with greetings and murmurs, but he remains at the foot of the stairs, and does not break his stare.

“Hamilton,” Grayson says loudly, and both of them finally look away, to him. “Perhaps you would care to regale us with your tale of resurrection?”

Hamilton clears his throat and raises his eyebrows. “Lee cannot be trusted with reports.” He glances at Washington. “Sir.”

“Surely that cannot be all,” Robert Harrison says, and Hamilton shakes his head.

“But it is. In the event of setting several barns ablaze, the British began firing, and though none of us were injured, I appear to have been reported dead. We escaped on a raft tethered only a hundred feet up the shore.”

Washington interjects before anyone else can speak, “Perhaps we should indulge the Colonel his rest. He has had a long and trying night, and I am sure I am not wrong in guessing you all shall continue this badgering over breakfast. Good night, all of you.”

There is a ripple of annoyance, but no one speaks against him, and eventually the company moves back towards the stairs. Laurens turns on his heel and lets himself be carried by the flow.

His and Hamilton’s room still appears desolate, and he thinks that perhaps it is the scattered papers and neatly folded clothes. Such things are not what they spend their precious time alone on.

Hamilton slips in and closes the door behind himself some minutes later, toeing off his boots and shedding his coat. Laurens drops onto his cot and examines him. His hair has been pulled loose from its ribbon and thoroughly mussed, and Laurens wonders at how he will tame it tomorrow. His uniform is crumpled and stained; he looks as though he was caught in a particularly violent thunderstorm, but he is _alive._

Laurens realizes he is shaking.

Hamilton sits on his cot, facing Laurens. He does not have the decency to appear ashamed. “So, I live,” he says, lightly.

Laurens is silent, letting the moment stretch. “I thought you dead,” he snaps, after Hamilton has begun to fidget. “I thought you dead, and yet here you return and act as though it is a joke.” He pauses, not long enough for Hamilton to reply. “I _grieved_ for you. Do not treat this like it is harmless, Hamilton.”

Hamilton purses his lips and murmurs, “I did not break my promise.”

“You had been killed!” Laurens shouts, and stares him down.

“I have not,” Hamilton says, quietly. “I sit before you, fully alive.”

“But you had been,” Laurens repeats, softer this time. “You had been shot and I folded your clothes and sorted your belongings and searched hopelessly for any picture of you I might have. I _wept_ for you.” He does not know why the admission comes, but it does, and all he can do is watch Hamilton’s reaction. “You had been killed, Alexander, and you promised me you would not be.” It is barely a whisper.

Hamilton rises slowly and comes to kneel in front of Laurens, cupping his face in his hands. “Oh, Laurens, I am so sorry. I did not mean you harm; I could never.”

Laurens meets Hamilton’s eyes, brings his hands up to the back of Hamilton’s neck. They spend a long moment examining each others’ eyes, then Laurens leans down to kiss Hamilton. It is soft, like Hamilton is delicate and might vanish or break if Laurens touches him. “I know.” He kisses him again, harder this time. “I know.” Their teeth clash together, but neither of them care. Laurens pulls at Hamilton’s sleeves, tugging him up to meet Laurens in a standing position.

Laurens pulls away for a moment and rests his forehead against Hamilton’s. “I feared I would never see you again.”

“And yet here I stand,” Hamilton says.

Laurens manages the ghost of a smile and kisses him fiercely once more. “Thank you.” At Hamilton’s odd look, he continues, “I am not sure how I would have fared without you by my side.”

Hamilton embraces him then, despite being the shorter of the two. Laurens cranes his neck to rest his head on Hamilton’s shoulder. “But you do not have to,” Hamilton says, and presses a kiss to his neck. “I shall remain yours forever, my dearest Laurens. I have not died, so you needn’t think on it any longer. I do not plan to leave you in such a manner.”

Laurens nods and rests his hands on the small of Hamilton’s back. “I should hope not.” They stay situated where they are, swaying slightly, as though dancing to a music neither can hear. Laurens listens to Hamilton’s heartbeat and does not think about it gone, him gone. He simply stands, and sways, and hopes for the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, gentle reminder that you can send me requests at my [tumblr](https://2000-bees-in-very-comfy-pajamas.tumblr.com)! Thanks for reading!


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